


set my soul on fire

by WeeBeastie



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Background Max/Eleanor, Daddy Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, Heist, Light BDSM, M/M, SFBB2018, ocean's 11 au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 20:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14859509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeBeastie/pseuds/WeeBeastie
Summary: i'm gonna keep on the run,gonna have me some fun,if it costs me my very last dimeso viva las vegas[an ocean's 11-style heist au for the 2018 silverflint big bang]





	set my soul on fire

**Author's Note:**

> I am so excited to finally be able to publicly share this entire thing! Huge thank yous to everyone who supported me (hi Jo) as I wrote this nearly 15k beast, it's been an absolute blast. Special thank you of course to my artist, the other half of team lurkermccoy, Alec aka queermccoy on Tumblr! <3
> 
> Title and lyrics in the summary from "Viva Las Vegas" by the one and only Elvis Presley, and shame on y'all who didn't recognize that this was my fic from the mystery summaries because duh, song lyrics in the title. ;)

Flint almost forgot what it was like to feel the sun on his skin.

Well, that’s a little dramatic - they were allowed time in the yard. It’s just different, now, being a free man again. 

Even better than the warmth on his skin and the smell of fresh air is the sight of one John Silver waiting in the prison parking lot, casually leaning his lithe form against a cherry red Caddy. He’s got his sunglasses on, his hair is longer than Flint remembered, and he’s eating a cheeseburger that’s getting grease all up in his beard. That, he definitely didn’t have when Flint was locked away. It’s scraggly and sad and he should dispense with it immediately, but he’s still a sight for sore eyes.

“Hey, kid,” Flint says once he’s close enough. Silver’s finished housing the cheeseburger by then and is licking his fingers like some kind of heathen. “How you been?”

“Bored,” Silver replies, and flashes him a bright smile. “Let’s go.”

He gets in the passenger seat of the Cadillac and makes himself at home while Silver gets her started and eases out of the hot, weathered lot and onto the highway. 

“So, where we off to?” Flint asks, cranking the window down to stick his arm out, feel the breeze on his fingers. 

“Treasure Island,” Silver says with a cocky little grin. Then he’s rummaging in the glove box, obviously caring not one whit about Flint’s personal space, and pulling out a sucker that he unwraps one-handed and puts in his mouth. Jesus, Flint had almost forgotten his compulsive need to have something in his mouth almost all the time. 

“Very funny, Long John Silver. Where are we actually going?” Flint asks, watching him shift the sucker into his cheek to talk. 

“Well, first we’re going to pay Maxanor a little visit. Then, Treasure Island. The Vegas casino,” he says, his voice only a little muffled by the candy in his mouth.

“Our next target,” Flint says as he realizes what Silver is saying. “And we’re going to see Max and Eleanor-”

“Maxanor. Right.”

“You know they hate that,” Flint says, chuckling despite himself. “Are we stopping somewhere on the way or driving straight to Nevada from here? Not that I mind either way. But you remember, of course, what happened the last time we did this long a drive without stopping.”

“Yeah that was- an embarrassing moment for all involved, and I’ll thank you to not remind me of it,” Silver says, the sucker clicking against his teeth as he shifts it to the other cheek. “No, I got us a motel room,” he says, and his left hand - the one with the tattoo - stays on the wheel while his right drifts over to rest on Flint’s thigh. “We have some catching up to do, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would,” Flint says, grinning when Silver’s incongruously large hand slides up his thigh incrementally and squeezes. 

“You look good,” Silver offers, glancing sideways at him and biting down on the sucker. Flint can hear it crack. 

“Thanks,” he says, and waits a beat before going on. “That beard has gotta go.”

“You’re not a fan?” Silver asks, lifting his right hand from Flint’s upper thigh to rub it self-consciously over his sad excuse for facial hair. 

“It makes you too recognizable. The hair, the tattoo, the beard - it’s too much,” Flint explains. 

“You have a beard,” Silver points out, unnecessarily. 

“Yeah, but I’m a beard man. You aren’t.”

“A beard man?” He sounds a little too incredulous for Flint’s taste. 

“A beard man.”

“But you are one? A beard man?” Silver asks. 

“Just look at me, kid,” Flint says, biting back a grin, and Silver’s belly laugh in response is music to his ears. 

Forty-five minutes down the highway - and a detailed explanation from Silver of his (fucking brilliant) plan - finds them rolling into the parking lot of a small, nondescript motel, the type of place where they bolt down the remote to the nightstand and even the pay-per-view porn isn’t anything you’d really want to see. Silver parks the car and gets their keys, and not five minutes later they’re alone in the little room, the door shushing closed behind them. 

Silver removes his sunglasses and wipes the lenses on the hem of his shirt. He still has the stick from the sucker in his mouth, idly grinding it between his molars as he looks intently at Flint. Aside from the beard he looks damn good - the royal blue suit, the white dress shirt left unbuttoned at the throat, the shiny dark brown curls around his shoulders. Flint is relieved to see he’s been holding up okay during his incarceration. 

“Miss me, daddy?” he rumbles. 

Flint plucks the stick from his mouth and throws it to one side, not giving one single fuck where it lands. He presses his mouth to Silver’s, tasting artificial watermelon as he slides his arms around his waist. When he pulls him close, he can feel that Silver is already hard. 

“You keep busy while I was gone?” Flint asks, panting, when he pulls back. He kisses messily along Silver’s jaw and down his neck, nimble fingers making quick work of his shirt buttons. 

“You’re asking if I fucked anybody else, to which the answer is no,” Silver says, hissing deliciously when Flint bites him. “I behaved.”

“So you haven’t gotten laid in-”

“Fifteen months. Yeah.”

“You know-”

“I‘m aware, and thank you, but- how do I put this? Ain’t nothing like the real thing, baby,” Silver says with a sly grin, and then he’s backing towards the bed and taking Flint with him. They topple over and Flint lands on top of him with one knee between his thighs. He goes a little cross eyed as Silver grinds on his leg. 

“You flatter me,” Flint says, pushing his suit jacket and shirt off him, drinking in all that tan, smooth skin. 

“You got _thick_ in prison, I like,” Silver purrs, thrusting impatiently against his thigh. 

“Show me how much you missed me,” Flint says, yanking Silver’s belt from its loops and unzipping his pants, getting one hand in. 

“God, so fucking much,” Silver gasps, and _oh_ , he’s already leaking. Poor boy really hasn’t had sex with another person in more than a year, bless him. 

Flint wastes no time stripping them the rest of the way, shedding his tuxedo (long story) and getting Silver out of that suit, taking a moment to just look at him before grabbing for Silver’s discarded pants. He finds a packet of lube in one pocket, naturally. 

“You came prepared,” he says admiringly, ripping it open with his teeth and spreading lube all over his fingers, pushing one into Silver just as fast as he can. He usually wouldn’t start so slow, but he’s keenly aware just how long it’s been. 

“You know me, I’m practically a Boy Scout,” Silver pants, squirming with impatience as Flint slowly works him open. “Fuck, come on. I’ve waited long enough, haven’t I?”

“Easy, kid, let a man work,” Flint murmurs, stretching him up to three fingers before he’s satisfied that he won’t hurt him - too much. He pulls his fingers out and spreads the rest of the lube on his cock, then takes Silver by the hips and pushes slowly into him. He’s hot and tight and everything Flint needs. It’s perfect. 

“Fuck me,” Silver gasps, and Flint groans, helpless to do anything but give him what he wants. What he needs. 

He gathers him in his arms and buries his face in his neck, starting to rock with him, thrusting deep and hard. He can feel Silver meeting him thrust for thrust beneath him, can hear him swearing such that it’d make Flint blush if he knew any shame. There’s nobody who knows him like Silver, nobody who has- this, this connection, this depth. He gets a hand in between them and starts jerking Silver off, fast because he can feel himself tingling in the way that means he’s not going to last much longer. 

“Oh god, fuck, don’t fucking stop, please,” Silver whimpers in his ear and Flint makes an animalistic noise in his chest, fucking Silver with reckless abandon. “God, James, Jesus, I missed you so bad, I’m gonna, don’t- ahh!” Silver shouts loud enough that his voice echoes off the walls of the tiny motel room, and Flint feels him coming and coming, hot and wet, over his hand. 

“Christ,” Flint groans, and empties himself into Silver with such force he actually sees stars, it’s that good. After, he slumps on top of him, resting his head on his shoulder and breathing hard, panting breaths against his neck. 

“Welcome home, tiger,” Silver says hoarsely, and chuckles. “Good to have you back.”

“Good to be back,” Flint purrs, and reluctantly pulls free of him, rolling over to lie next to him on his back. “Nevada in the morning?” he asks. 

“Mm,” Silver agrees. He looks relaxed, boneless almost, and his smile is at least a mile wide.

“You gonna shave before we go?” Flint asks, because he just can’t help himself. 

“I’m hungry,” Silver announces, pointedly ignoring Flint’s inquiry. “Saw a Carl’s Junior a ways down the road. Could really go for some fried zucchini.”

“By all means,” Flint says, and sits up with a groan. He adjourns to the minuscule bathroom with its sad shower cubicle that would barely fit one of them, let alone both, and returns with a damp washcloth to clean himself and Silver up. They get dressed again, and finally bring their things (well, mostly Silver’s things - Flint only has what was on him when he got put away, plus whatever Silver brought for him) in from the Caddy. It’s not long before they’re back in the motel room, the TV blaring something brainless, the two of them stripped mostly naked and sharing a heap of greasy fast food and a sixer from the gas station between them. 

“How do you not weigh a thousand pounds by now, kid?” Flint asks enviously, wiping a smear of ketchup off Silver’s face with his thumb. He sticks that thumb in his own mouth to clean it and is gratified to see how Silver’s intense blue eyes track the movement of his lips and tongue. Someone really missed him. 

“You don’t have to keep calling me that, y’know. I’m 32 now,” Silver says, like that’s so old, one eyebrow arched. 

“Yeah, but old habits die hard. You were how old when we first met, 19?” Flint asks. It’s all a bit of a blur now, it was so long ago. He remembers being all of twenty-six or twenty-seven himself, a long, lost few weeks in a motel in Calexico, a border town on the California side where a man can disappear if he so chooses. He remembers children and stray dogs in the dusty streets, and the way nothing tasted so good at the end of a blisteringly hot day as a shot or three. Through the tequila haze of his memories from that time, he remembers noticing Silver’s piercing, intoxicating eyes. His soft, warm lips, the earthy and salty scent of his skin, the way he-

“I _told_ you I was 19, sure,” says the man opposite him, fully grown now, eating some kind of lardy monstrosity in nothing but his shiny satin boxers. It takes Flint a moment to catch on to what he’s saying. 

“No,” he says, disbelieving. Even back then, he’d been a professional, a smart man, not at all the type to be taken in by some doe-eyed twink lying about his age. “You showed me ID. Several forms, as I remember.”

“You think I didn’t have fakes back then?” Silver asks, grinning like the cat who got the canary. “James. Come on.”

“So you were-”

“Seventeen, actually,” Silver says, grabbing a handful of Flint’s curly fries and stuffing them in his mouth. He’s disgusting. He’s beautiful. 

“Damn,” Flint says, feeling a thrill, unbidden, race up his spine. “You didn’t-”

“-fuck like a-”

“-a seventeen-year-old. Yeah,” Flint says, exhaling sharply. “Ain’t that a kick in the head.”

“How does it make you feel?” Silver asks, picking up his beer bottle from the floor, taking a long sip. Flint watches his throat work. 

“Honestly?” he asks, wiping his hands on a napkin, taking a moment. “I’m having a reaction to it that I’m not proud of, but I also don’t want to examine it too closely. So.”

“We didn’t get where we are by denying ourselves, old man,” Silver says, and when he ends up with rug burn on his knees from the cheap motel carpet, well, it could be argued that’s all his fault, really. 

The next day they check out of the motel and start towards Nevada. Before they leave, they each take a shower, and Silver emerges from the bathroom after his with a newly clean-shaven face. 

Flint, in the middle of putting on the designer jeans and fitted shirt that Silver thoughtfully brought for him, can’t resist and pats his cheeks with both hands. “There’s my boy,” he rumbles. 

“It was getting itchy anyway,” Silver lies. 

Around noon, they stop for gas and snacks, and Flint finds one of the world’s last remaining pay phones to call his parole officer. 

“Yeah, hi, Officer Featherstone? It’s James Flint. I just got out yesterday, I’m supposed to check in with you within twenty-four hours.” He pauses, listening to the bored-sounding voice on the other end of the line. “No sir, haven’t gotten in any trouble, not associating with any old contacts. No, no drinking, sir. Certainly not.” He pauses again, listens. “No sir. Wouldn’t even dream of leaving the state.”

By the time he hangs up and strolls back to the waiting Caddy, Silver is already in the driver’s seat, a Twizzler dangling from his mouth. Flint can smell the waxy faux cherry scent of it before he even gets in the car. 

“Do you ever so much as look at a vegetable?” Flint asks. 

“Waste of time,” Silver mutters, and speeds off.

It’s near dark when they roll up on Eleanor and Max’s house in the foothills of Black Mountain. Well, less a house and more a mansion, really. The type of place Flint might like to retire to someday, should he and Silver ever get out of the game for good. There are big locked wrought iron gates and security cameras, but the two of them have yet to be stymied by those. They’re waiting in the backyard by the infinity pool, Silver sprawled on his belly on a chaise and dangling his fingers in the water, when Max emerges from the mansion in a short pink confection of a dress. 

“Maxanor!” Silver carols cheerily when he sees her. 

“Boy, bye,” she says, a certain regal distaste on her face as she looks at him. “How did you even get in? Ellie! Your fake dad and his chew toy are here.”

Eleanor appears then, and she’s as stunning as Flint’s ever seen her - resplendent in a long off-white robe and a bright floral print bikini. She looks tan and happy, and just seeing her makes him feel at peace. 

“You’re a free man again,” she says, hugging him tight. She smells like coconut sunscreen and expensive, woodsy perfume. “How are you? When did you get out?”

“Very well, thanks, and yesterday. John picked me up,” Flint says. 

“Of course he did,” she says, glancing toward Silver with barely disguised contempt. She’s never gotten on with him, nor him with her, much to Flint’s chagrin. “I’m going to take a wild guess and assume you two didn’t just come here to say hello. Shall we go inside and talk business?” she offers. 

“I’d like that,” Flint says, and smiles at her. 

They go inside, ladies first, and as Flint watches bemusedly, Silver makes himself very much at home - he opens the fridge and comes away with a takeout container. He finds a fork and digs in while Eleanor pours them each a glass of white wine and Max settles at the dining room table, glaring in Silver’s general direction. 

“So. The target?” Max asks as they join her at the table, Silver making quick work of the pilfered leftovers and wiping his mouth on his forearm. 

“Treasure Island,” he says, and Max and Eleanor exchange a look. “The casino. Owned by none other than-”

“My ex-husband Woodes Rogers,” Eleanor cuts in, a little smile curving her lips. She takes a sip of her wine and studies Flint. He can practically see the wheels turning in her head. “You realize, of course, that this kind of thing has never been done. No one’s ever - ever - successfully robbed a Vegas casino.”

“That’s just because nobody’s ever-” Silver starts to say. 

“Oh they’ve tried,” Eleanor interrupts him. “It’s been attempted; what I’m saying is it’s never been done,” she says, and sips her wine again. “You wanna know the three who got closest? One in the 50s, a smash-and-grab where the guy just took a lock box and ran. Got all of three steps before security nabbed him. Then, a guy in the 70s - he almost made it to the doors. Tasted fresh oxygen before they took him down! Of course, he was breathing through a hose for three weeks after what those goons did to him. Nasty business. And the most recent? Late 80s, got all the way out through the front doors with the cash before being shot dead by police outside Caesar’s.” She shakes her head sadly while Flint exchanges a look with Silver. “You know, in my father’s day, this kind of thing was civilized. You’d hit a guy, he’d whack you, done. But with Woodes? He had better not know you’re involved, know your names, or think you’re dead, because he’ll kill you and then he’ll go to work on you.” She pauses, looking steadily at Flint. “To pull something off against him, you’ve gotta be crazy. And you’ll need a crew as crazy as you are, obviously.” She sets her wine glass down and smiles at them. “Who do you have in mind?”

“Well, we’re going to need to do some recruiting. I have some ideas already, but your input is greatly appreciated, of course. We even have roles in mind for you two, if you’re interested,” Flint says. 

“Sounds like it could be fun,” Eleanor allows, glancing at Max, who nods. “I think we can make a few calls, see who’s available. Get some funds together. Give us a week, maybe ten days,” she says. “You’re both welcome to stay here while everything gets sorted, of course.”

“We couldn’t possibly impose,” Flint says, then eyes Silver, who’s giving him a Look. “Well. Maybe just tonight.”

Some hours and another bottle of wine later, he and Silver are shown to a lavish guest room, complete with a king bed and plush curtains tied back with thick gold ropes. It’s _almost_ too much, which about sums up Max’s decorating style in general, from Flint’s point of view. He sits down on the edge of the bed to take off his shoes while Silver fetches their meager possessions from the Caddy.

“Alone at last,” says the man in question when he returns, softly closing the French doors behind him. He drops the duffel bag by his feet and practically struts over to Flint, a grin on his face. Flint knows what that means. 

“No,” he says, trying to head Silver off at the pass as he pulls his shirt off over his head. He’s had a long day, he’s sleepy from the wine, and most importantly, he wants to respect Eleanor and Max in their home. 

“But why?” Silver purrs, dropping gracelessly into Flint’s lap, straddling him. Flint makes a pointed ‘oof’ noise, but Silver, predictably, goes nowhere. “C’mon, daddy, I’ve been all alone with nothing but my left hand for company lo these fifteen months while you were doing hard time. My loins ache for you,” he murmurs, pinching Flint’s nipple with his tattooed hand and gnawing on the sensitive spot behind his ear. 

“Keep your hands and your mouth to yourself, kid. You know we don’t do this here, not in Eleanor’s house,” Flint argues. It’s hard to focus on making his point, though, since Silver has started grinding his hips in his lap, practically dancing, and his hands are suddenly every-fucking-where. 

“She’ll never know. There’s a hundred rooms in this house, and I’ll be quiet. Please,” Silver says, ducking his head under Flint’s chin to mouth at his throat. Has to get his lips and teeth on everything, this one. Flint relents a little, tipping his head back, and out of the corner of one eye notices the curtains and their fancy ropes again. 

Ropes that could be repurposed to tie back something other than curtains. 

“Get up,” he says, and he must pitch his voice just right because Silver’s up and off his lap in a flash, yanking his own shirt off and unbuttoning his jeans. No underwear - he planned this. Of course he did. Flint rises from the bed and unties the curtains, letting them fall shut while he paces back to a now-nude Silver. “Turn around,” he says, and Silver does. 

Tying someone up with curtain ropes is far from the strangest idea Flint’s ever had, but it’ll definitely go down in the books as one of the best. Once he’s got Silver’s hands secured, he backs him towards the bed, pushing lightly on his shoulder to get him to sit. 

“What are we doing, here? Not that I mind at all, just curious,” Silver says, squirming a little, testing Flint’s knots on his wrists. He’s visibly hard, his cock curved toward his belly, the tip already wet with precome. “This is leading up to you fucking me, right?” A pause. “Right?”

Flint says nothing, just gets on his knees between Silver’s spread thighs and goes to work.

He hears Silver shout above him - so much for being quiet - and rests both hands on his hips, taking him deep in his throat. He pulls back after a moment with the express intent of driving him crazy with his tongue, and if the cursing and whining he can hear echoing off the walls is any indication, he’s doing exactly that. Silver tastes salty and earthy, the scent of him - of home - thick in Flint’s nose. He digs his thumbs into the soft flesh of Silver’s lower belly and deepthroats him again, silently reveling in the frenetic wail that pulls from him. 

“Fucking hell,” he hears Silver gasp, and it’s obvious he’d be bucking, would be fucking Flint’s face if it weren’t for the grip he has on his hips. Flint sucks him hard, his world narrowing to just Silver and his cock. “Jesus fucking Christ, that’s- you’re- how the fuck are you so good, ahh, shit,” Silver babbles, and Flint would be smirking if he could. Instead he pulls back again and sucks just the head, getting one hand around Silver’s cock and squeezing the base just this side of too hard. He’s not ready for Silver to come just yet. 

“Please,” Silver says through gritted teeth, and this is clearly just _killing_ him and Flint loves it. “Please let me come, please, oh my god, I’m gonna die, you’re gonna actually kill me,” he says in a rush, and Flint pulls off to look up at him, to admire how his chest is heaving and he’s got his head thrown back, his eyes narrowed to bright blue slits. Flint licks his lips. 

“Please what?” he purrs, giving the head of Silver’s cock a sweet kiss. He cries out incoherently, so Flint tries again: “You know what I wanna hear. C’mon.”

“Please let me come,” Silver says, breathless. And then: “Daddy.”

“There you go, kid, was that so hard?” Flint rumbles, then takes Silver in his mouth again and loosens the tight grip he’s got on him. Silver yells again, a prolonged, almost pained ahh punctuated by a yelped _fuck!_ at the end, and Flint tastes him, swallows his come, eager for it. He pulls off when Silver’s finished, idly running his fingernails over his thighs. Usually at this point in the evening, he’d give Silver a minute to recover, but something in him doesn’t want to do that, not tonight. So he leans in and takes to licking and sucking again, working Silver’s soft cock, coaxing it towards hardness again. 

“What the- ah. Ref- fuck! - refractory periods are a thing, James, I’m not eighteen anymore, _Christ_ ,” Silver whimpers, moving his hips like he’s not sure if he wants to thrust into Flint’s mouth or move away. Flint keeps at it and can feel Silver slowly getting hard again in his mouth despite his incredibly recent orgasm. “Shit,” Silver breathes, almost reverently, and Flint can feel his thighs trembling under his palms. He’s a good, good boy. 

Flint pulls off him with a wet pop, then suckles on the head of his cock, intent on pulling another orgasm out of him. He scrapes his thighs with his fingernails, and is gratified when Silver bucks into his mouth, spreading his legs further apart and bracing his feet on the floor. He pushes into Flint’s mouth with shallow, short thrusts, and when Flint glances up at him he can see how overwhelmed he is - how much he needs this. He’s leaning back on his bound hands, chin to his chest, eyes squeezed shut tight, and his teeth are bared in a grimace of pleasure. He’s so beautiful like this, a little helpless and a lot turned on. 

Flint pulls off him, blowing gently on his wet cock, grinning when he sees him start leaking and hears his loud string of curses - _fuckdammitjesus_. 

“You gonna come again? I think you should,” Flint says, licking a stripe up his cock, just to make him squirm. 

“I can’t,” Silver says, frantically shaking his head. He’s trembling all over now, drawn tight, so tight. He’s all wound up and it makes Flint’s blood sing. “Jesus Christ, James, I don’t think I can,” he moans, toes curling in the plush carpet. 

“You can,” Flint assures him in his most soothing voice, then rubs his cheek against Silver’s cock, the hair on his face catching on the velvety soft skin. “I know you can, show me. Do it. Come for me.”

Silver whines, curses, and a moment later Flint feels his come landing on his skin, painting his cheek and neck and shoulder. Not as much as before, but still more than enough to make a proper mess of Flint. He swipes at it haphazardly with one hand and sucks it off his fingers, getting to his feet with a quiet groan. He leans over Silver - who’s still whimpering quietly, shuddering through the aftershocks of two impressive performances - and unties his hands, running his fingers lightly over his wrists affectionately after tossing the ropes aside. Silver clutches at him once his hands are free, and Flint lets him hold on and just breathe for a moment to calm down, then gently pulls away to go get something to clean up with. He returns from the ensuite bathroom and wipes Silver’s face tenderly with the damp washcloth, then gets the rest of the mess off his own skin. He thinks some of it might be in his hair, but that’s a problem for tomorrow. 

“You okay?” he asks Silver, shimmying out of his jeans and joining his boy in the bed. He stretches out on his back with a sigh of pleasure, folding his arms behind his head. 

“More than okay. Pretty sure I saw the face of God,” Silver jokes hoarsely, stretching out next to Flint, propped up on one elbow. “Are you okay? Don’t you want to come, too?” he asks, and as he reaches for Flint’s underwear with a hungry gleam in his eyes, Flint smacks his hand away. “Ow! Dammit. The fuck is that for?”

“You know I don’t get off in Eleanor’s house,” he says, closing his eyes and getting comfortable. He’s earned himself a good night’s sleep in this very fancy bed. 

“We are definitely getting a hotel room tomorrow,” Silver mutters after a beat, draping one arm over Flint’s belly. 

“Whatever you want, baby,” Flint agrees, and then he’s out like a light.

He only realizes how fucking _loud_ Silver was the next morning when they come downstairs in search of coffee (Flint) and food (Silver, although he’s got a caffeine habit, too) and find Max there. Smirking at them. 

She’s wearing a silky midnight blue dressing gown trimmed with honest-to-god marabou, and on anyone else it’d look ridiculous, but somehow she makes it work. She leans a hip against the kitchen counter, watching as Flint muzzily prepares two mugs of coffee, one black (his) and one with so much sugar and cream it’s hardly coffee anymore (guess). 

“So, daddy, huh?” she asks cheerfully, and Flint clearly chose the wrong moment to take a sip of his coffee - he nearly chokes. He can hear Silver snickering behind him, the shit.

“You heard us, then. Uh. Sorry about that,” Flint says, feeling much more embarrassed than Silver has the decency to, if his grin is any indication. Flint hands him his coffee, although a small, petty part of him almost wants to dump it down the sink. 

“You ought to get a gag for him,” Max advises, sweeping past Flint to start making breakfast. 

“Tried that,” Silver pipes up before Flint can offer the type of polite noncommittal response he excels at. “Several times, actually. Chewed through all of ‘em. Oral fixation.”

“She doesn’t wanna know that, kid! Christ. Have some courtesy,” Flint mutters, scowling. 

“Have some sympathy, and some taste,” Silver jokes, and laughs again. He investigates a pink bakery box on the kitchen counter and comes away with a donut in his free hand and two - two! - in his mouth. Good lord. 

“You’re gonna choke,” Flint chides him, following him to the dining room table. 

“You know better than anyone that I don’t have a gag reflex,” Silver somehow manages to say around the donuts, and Flint snorts. 

Eleanor joins them a few minutes later, giving Flint a sidelong look that he interprets to mean she heard them last night, too. Oops. They talk shop over breakfast - Max makes eggs and bacon and toast, which Silver helps himself to despite the three donuts. 

“So we’ll make some calls and some visits, and get everybody together in a couple days, see where we’re at,” Eleanor says. “We’ll have a little party here, see who we can convince to be part of this harebrained scheme against my ex,” she says, smiling at Flint with clear affection. 

“Perfect,” he says. “John and I will get a hotel room today and come back later on for the party. Thank you again for your hospitality,” he says, smiling back. 

“Of course. And I’ve been meaning to thank you two for that, uh, thing with the guy in the place, I’ll never forget it. Great work,” Eleanor says, looking away and fidgeting with her napkin. 

Flint glances at Silver and they exchange a look, remembering. 

“It was our pleasure,” Silver says, nodding. 

“We’d never been to the Bahamas,” Flint adds. 

That afternoon finds them getting comfortable at a swanky suite in the Bellagio. Silver is trying to trying to convince Flint that going clothes shopping is a worthwhile endeavor - he could only bring so much with him, and they’ll both be running low on clean laundry soon. Flint would rather not attract much if any attention to them at this stage in the game, but he does so enjoy getting a chance to pick Silver’s clothes, so eventually he relents. They pass the remainder of the afternoon that way, and return to the hotel a little less wealthy but otherwise no worse for the wear. 

Silver immediately makes himself useful turning their suite into something of a command post - he’s got pilfered blueprints spread out on the table, surveillance photos from Treasure Island that he lifted from who knows where, and no fewer than three notebooks that Flint knows are crammed full of notes and pointers from previous heists. Watching him in his element is giving Flint some kind of reaction. 

“How long were you growing that sad beard while I was gone?” he asks, sipping a very expensive vodka tonic assembled from the suite’s minibar. 

Silver says nothing, just rummages in his duffel bag while loudly crunching peanut M&Ms from the same minibar. 

“The whole time? Really? Oh, John,” he says, chuckling. “You wanna know how long it took me to grow this one?”

Silver mutters something that sounds like ‘shut your face,’ and wanders off to the bathroom. 

While he’s out of the room, Flint continues with setting up. As he goes into the duffel bag to retrieve the next thing, he pauses, catching the faintest scent of something. It’s familiar, but he doesn’t like it. A few moments later, Silver emerges, wiping his hands on his jeans and investigating the minibar again, coming up with a bag of pretzels this time. 

“You started smoking again while I was gone,” Flint says softly, only a little accusingly, looking at Silver. He’s got his back turned. “John. Over here. Look me in the eye and tell me you did not start smoking again when I was incarcerated.”

“I did,” Silver allows, turning slowly to face Flint. He leans one hip on the desk, idly chewing a pretzel. “But I quit again, too. It was only for a couple months. Six, at the outside.” He licks salt off his fingers. 

“That’s a filthy habit, kid,” Flint chastises him, sauntering over, getting up in his space. He can hear Silver start breathing a little faster, can see his pupils dilate. 

“Yeah, I have a lot of those,” Silver rumbles. 

“Why’d you do it?” Flint asks, taking the bag of pretzels from him and setting it on the desk, starting to pop open the buttons on Silver’s linen shirt with skilled fingers. 

“I was tense,” Silver says, his whole body curving towards Flint, the very picture of want. “I wasn’t getting laid. I had no work except to plan what I wanted to do when you got out. I was laying low. It was a difficult time. I was lonely, and bored.” He pauses. “Besides, you know me and my compulsive need to have things in my mouth.”

“I told you before I went in, I don’t mind if you fuck other people when I’m not there. Just tell me all about it after,” Flint says, pushing the shirt off his shoulders. 

“I didn’t want other people,” Silver argues, an edge to his voice. He leans in, grasping Flint by the back of his neck with one huge hand, his teeth scraping Flint’s ear. “Wanted you.”

“How about now? You want me now?” Flint asks with a little grin. He can’t help himself sometimes. 

“I think the answer to that is pretty clear,” Silver purrs, then takes Flint by the hand and leads him to the bedroom of the lavish suite. He sheds his pants on the way, and Flint strips out of his shirt, unbuckling his belt as they reach the bed. 

“I’ve missed you, kid,” he says, as sincere as he ever gets. 

“Bet you were lonely too, in prison,” Silver says, removing his underwear with no delay and stretching out on the king size bed. He rolls over onto his stomach and shoots Flint a teasing look over his shoulder. “Did you miss this?”

Flint, naked now too, kneels on the bed with his knees bracketing Silver’s thighs. “I missed the hell out of it,” he says reverently, squeezing Silver’s ass with both hands. He runs one hand down his back, following the curve of his spine, and lightly digs his fingernails into Silver’s ass. Beneath him, Silver’s breath hitches and he pushes back towards Flint’s hand. 

“You gonna actually do something back there or just drive me crazy?” Silver asks, his voice strained. 

In response, Flint lifts his hand and gives Silver a light smack. He yelps in surprise, then moans and pushes back against Flint again. 

“That what you had in mind?” he asks, and smacks him again, only lightly, starting slow. 

“It’s a hell of a good start,” Silver says, folding his arms and burying his face in them, muffling his groans as Flint spanks him three times more in quick succession. 

“If, god forbid, I ever go to prison again, are you gonna use that as an excuse to take up your nasty habits?” Flint asks, smacking him one more time, harder now, when he doesn’t respond. “Mm?”

“No,” Silver moans, turning his head to one side and catching Flint’s eye. “I won’t. I promise.”

“Good boy,” Flint says, and smacks him again, half a dozen times, easy. When he’s through, Silver’s skin is pink and warm, and he’s practically shaking with lust. 

He just can’t wait any longer, seeing Silver that way. He leans over to the nightstand - they’ve already stashed lube there because they know what they’re about - and opens it, squeezing some out over his fingers and pushing two in to start, impatient. 

“Fuck,” Silver sighs, like it’s a relief to have Flint’s fingers inside him. He shifts his hips and pushes back, getting Flint to start rocking his fingers within him. “Yeah, like that.”

Flint works him open slowly, wanting him to feel it, to revel in what it’s like to finally have Flint back after so long. 

“James, baby, please,” Silver whines once he’s got three fingers buried in him, stroking over his prostate relentlessly. “I can only take so m- _fuck_ ,” he gasps, thrusting down against the bed like his need for friction is just so great, he can’t help himself. 

“You need me?” Flint asks, curling his fingers inside him, shivering with pleasure when Silver keens, loud. “Shh, you’re alright. Let me take care of you.”

He pulls his fingers out quickly and grabs a pillow from the bed, manhandling Silver to get it under his hips, prop him up the way Flint likes best. He finds the lube again and slicks himself up, hissing quietly at the feel of his own hand gliding over his sensitive skin, then shifts into position and pushes slowly into Silver with a quiet groan. It’s not as frantic as their first time after Flint got out, but he feels the need, the helpless desire just as much as he ever has. He gives Silver a moment to get used to having his cock inside him, then eases back and thrusts in again, gripping his hips in both hands. 

“John,” he pants, running one hand up his back to grab a fistful of his curls and pull. “Fuck.”

Silver moans and shifts, bracing himself on his forearms and pushing back against Flint, hard, determined. They find their rhythm together then, and Flint sinks into it, gets lost in it, his world narrowing to the push and pull of their hips, the slap of their skin, Silver’s whimpered moaning every time Flint’s hips meet his tender ass. 

When he can feel himself getting close, can feel his toes curling and his spine tingling, he leans over Silver and slides one hand beneath him, grasping his cock. It’s leaking all over the pillow Flint propped him up on, and Flint is reminded of just how much he loves Silver, in that moment. He doesn’t stroke him, just holds his cock as he fucks him, listening to the sweet music of Silver rapidly descending into incoherence. 

Flint comes first, thrusting deep in Silver and staying there as he does, fireworks bursting behind his eyes and his whole body alive with ecstasy. When he’s finished, he realizes Silver isn’t yet, trembling and cursing and writhing beneath him, thrusting into his hand, trying desperately to get Flint to get him off. He’s not usually a cruel man, so he has mercy on him then, stroking him quickly just the way he likes it. 

“Fuck!” Silver bellows, and finally comes then, one leg drumming against the bed several times in a spasm of pleasure before he finally relaxes, sated, underneath Flint. 

Flint pulls out of him carefully and rolls over to lie next to him, catching his breath. He can feel himself grinning at the ceiling. He reaches out blindly to put a hand on Silver, running his fingers over the dimples in his lower back. 

“We need a distraction,” Silver murmurs, and Flint turns his head to look at him then, admiring the dreamy, contented look on his face. 

“Thought we just had one. A big one,” Flint jokes hoarsely. “Gimme a few minutes.”

“Not that,” Silver says, laughing in a way that warms Flint’s belly. He props himself up and leans over Flint, their faces only a scant few inches apart. “You know what I mean,” he rumbles, then bites along the line of Flint’s jaw like he’s teething on him. 

“That’s my face,” Flint says pointedly, but lets him do it anyway as he thinks. Then: realization. “Ahh. Yes. I see what you’re getting at.”

They clean up - together, because the shower is that big and that nice - and change into the suits they bought earlier. Silver’s is shiny and a little loud for Flint’s tastes, but he knows it would be even worse had Flint not been there to help pick it out - he’s got questionable taste in clothing, and has only improved over the years thanks to Flint’s very fashionable influence. Flint’s is classic, navy blue with a white shirt and his special gold cufflinks. Once they’re ready, they go for a quick dinner (because Silver is hungry again, somehow, despite all the minibar snacks) and then adjourn to the Sapphire club. 

They find seats near the main stage and get a cocktail each, Flint nursing a vodka tonic while Silver sips something neon-colored and fruity. 

“I can feel you judging my drink,” Silver says, not looking at Flint. 

“I mean. How old are you, again?” Flint asks, smirking. 

“We’ve already had this conversation,” Silver mutters, and takes a noisy sip of the drink like he’s enjoying it just to spite Flint. “You think they have taquitos here?”

Flint just snorts and shakes his head. They watch the first few dancers together, quietly murmuring admiration to one another. The third act, though - she’s something special. All pale skin and long black hair, in an underbust corset that nips in her waist and makes her chest appear to defy gravity. 

“You know, I’d never judge someone for choosing to get surgically augmented, but-” Flint starts. 

“Yeah. There’s just something about the natural ones,” Silver agrees, a touch of awe in his voice. When the beautiful brunette pulls out a bullwhip, Flint can’t help but notice Silver sit up a little straighter and tug on his tie. He’s so predictable, his boy. 

She catches sight of them and winks. Flint smiles back and hears Silver make a noise like ‘hngh’ next to him. She’s an absolute artist with the whip - Flint is impressed, and intrigued. When her act concludes, she saunters to the edge of the stage and leans down, and Flint isn’t looking at Silver but he can just guess where he’s staring. 

“Hi, James,” she says, and takes the money he offers her, tucking it into the waistband of her thong. “Hi, John,” she purrs at Silver, and he looks like a teenager, unable to take his eyes off her bare chest. 

“Evening, Idelle. Forgive him, he was weaned too early. Can we talk when you’re done with work?” Flint asks. 

“Sure can. Meet me backstage in twenty,” she says, then whispers something in Silver’s ear that Flint is sure is filthy and maybe a little humiliating. Bless her. 

They finish their drinks and head backstage to meet Idelle twenty minutes later. Silver looks a bit flushed and Flint knows it’s not from the alcohol. They find Idelle sitting at a vanity, wearing a silky black robe and taking off her vampy red lipstick. She turns when she hears them come in and gets up, hugging them both. 

“It is so good to see you free again,” she says to Flint, smiling at him sincerely. She looks them up and down, her gaze lingering on Silver. “Both of you have the glow of the recently well-fucked, so I see you wasted no time getting reacquainted. Good for you.”

“Thanks,” Flint says, amused. 

“You know, I offered to keep your boy company while you were gone, but he turned me down,” she says, putting her index finger under Silver’s chin and tipping his head black. His eyelashes flutter and he glances sideways at Flint, swallowing hard. “It’s a good thing he has you back. I think he would’ve exploded if he had to wait much longer.”

“You should’ve taken her up on it, John,” Flint chastises Silver, grinning a little. “And then told me all about it later.”

“Isn’t there some kind of plot-related reason we’re here? Please?” Silver asks, but he hasn’t moved away from Idelle’s hand. She’s gently holding his chin now, like she’s examining him, evaluating him. Flint would like to watch them together all night, but there _is_ a plot-related reason they’ve come to see her, after all. 

“We’re putting together a crew,” Flint begins, and Idelle lets go of Silver, who exhales hard and puts a Lifesaver in his mouth. Flint can hear him sucking furiously on it. “We need somebody who’s willing to be a distraction. Someone attractive, with a commanding presence and the ability to make all eyes in the room go to them. You in?”

“Flatter me some more, why don’t you,” Idelle says, smiling. She fixes Silver’s tie for him and kisses his cheek, and Flint can hear him whimper. “I’m in,” she says. “I’ll be your distraction.”

“That’s wonderful. Speaking for John and myself, since he appears to be struck dumb, we’re very pleased,” Flint says, amused. “There’s going to be a gathering at Eleanor and Max’s home in a little while. We’ll explain more there,” Flint says. “Oh, and Idelle?” he asks. 

“Hmm?” she says, smoothing Silver’s hair back from his face, fussing over him like a mother would. It’s just divine to watch. 

“How long did it take you to learn to use the bullwhip?” he asks innocently, and Silver turns and stares at him, mouth slightly open, eyes wide.

“Oh, not so long as you’d think. Just a few months,” Idelle says. “Close your mouth, baby. You look like a fish,” she teases Silver, and pats his cheek just this side of too hard. Flint loves her. 

They manage to leave the Sapphire club with Silver’s dignity intact, although even in the dark Flint can tell he’s blushing as they walk out to the Caddy and ride back to their hotel. 

“So, did y-”

“Stop. Nope. Don’t,” Silver says, gripping the wheel a little tighter and not looking at Flint. When he rolls to a stop at a red light, he pops another Lifesaver in his mouth. Flint smells sticky sweet artificial orange when he does. 

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed a-” he tries again. 

“What part of ‘stop nope don’t’ is incomprehensible to you?” Silver asks, glancing sideways at him. The light turns green and he speeds away. 

When they get back to their hotel room, Flint fixes himself another minibar cocktail and prepares one for Silver, too. He brings it to him where he’s sitting slumped on the couch in the main room of the suite, his suit jacket gone, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’s a vision in burgundy. Some old Western is playing on TV, but Silver hardly seems to be paying attention. 

“We don’t have to do this,” Flint says, cautious, wondering if it’s all finally caught up with his partner - how badly their last con went awry, his own corresponding prison sentence, the nearness with which Silver came to being put away himself. “Say the word, kid, and we’ll leave. Go to Juarez or Nassau or Ocho Rios. Anywhere in the world, you name it, we’ll go.”

“I want to do it,” Silver says after a long pause, turning to look at Flint. “I’ve missed this. The game, the planning, the getting everybody together - but most of all, James?”

“Mm.”

“I’ve missed doing it all with you,” he says. He holds his glass out to Flint and they clink them together lightly. 

“Cheers,” Flint says, “to our continued success.”

“Be-you-tiful,” Silver agrees, and leans in for a lingering kiss. 

The next day, Flint wakes up first, just after dawn. He’s barely slept at all but his mind is alive with plans, with ideas. He gets out of bed and leaves Silver there to sleep while he schemes. They only have three weeks until the night of the big prize fight, which means they have to work fast - there are roles to learn and parts to play, not to mention the whole ‘building a replica Treasure Island vault’ thing. 

When Silver finally wakes up around 9, Flint orders then room service for breakfast. Silver is blearily chewing on a piece of bacon when Flint speaks the first real words he’s spoken to him all morning. 

“So counting everybody on Eleanor’s list, including you and me, that makes ten. Ten oughta do it, don’t you think?” he asks. Silver says nothing, just keeps eating. “D’you think we need one more?” Flint asks, watching the TV. There’s flooding in Kauai, enough to make the news in Vegas. Sad. “You think we need one more,” he says, looking sideways at Silver, who merely swallows, then blinks. “Alright, we’ll get one more.”

They plan - and argue, because they never bicker more than they do right before a heist - most of the day away. Flint tackles Silver to the bed around sunset, pushing his suspenders off his shoulders and biting savagely at his throat, making him writhe and shout. Once they’ve worked out some of their frustration by fucking, Flint nudges Silver into getting dressed again so they can take in a show - something fanciful and touristy, with a lot of silk and men with swords. 

It’s where he hopes to find the eleventh and final member of their crew. 

“Which one is Joji?” Flint murmurs in Silver’s ear after the curtain goes up. They had dinner beforehand, but Silver is crunching on popcorn anyway because of course he is. 

“The Asian guy with the sword,” Silver murmurs back, admirably straight-faced for a man who just said something so ridiculous. All the men on the stage are Asian, and at least three quarters of them have swords. 

They meet Joji properly after the show. Silver, who speaks passable Japanese, interprets for Flint and explains patiently to Joji who they are and what it is they’re looking for. Flint doesn’t speak Japanese himself, but he knows a good sign when he sees one: Joji and Silver shake hands and grin at each other, and as Joji strides off, Silver nonchalantly informs Flint that he’s very keen on the idea from what little Silver told him, and he’ll be at the party. 

“What would I do without you, huh, kid?” Flint asks as they leave the theater, one arm slung around Silver’s shoulders. He presses a kiss to his head, feeling on top of the world. 

“I dunno. I think you’d get by okay but you’d be really, really bored,” Silver says in a teasing voice, grinning up at Flint. “Let’s find an ice cream place that’s still open at this hour. I’m famished.”

On the morning of the party at Max and Eleanor’s, Flint wakes up feeling positively giddy, which probably has at least a little to do with where Silver’s mouth is when he wakes up. He’s eager for sunset to roll around, too, so that he and Silver can go to the mansion and see everyone they’ve assembled. Some of them Flint knows only peripherally, some he’s worked with before, and at least two are entirely new to him (Silver found them - he said he knows them from ‘back in the day,’ whatever that’s supposed to mean). 

“I’m starving,” Silver says when he emerges from under the covers without a trace of irony, wiping his mouth on his arm and lunging at Flint with his teeth bared, gnawing voraciously his collarbone. 

“If I order room service, will you please stop trying to take a chunk out of me?” Flint asks, amused. 

“Mm,” Silver mumbles against him, sucking a hickey into his skin. 

“I need to get you a muzzle,” Flint mutters, and if anything Silver bites him more enthusiastically then. He leans over to grab the room’s phone from its cradle as his nuisance of a boy nibbles his way down his chest. He manages to order them breakfast - waffles, pancakes, bacon, eggs, fruit, and coffee - without incurring too much more bodily harm. 

When the food arrives, they eat in bed, Flint in his boxers which he hurriedly put on to answer the door and Silver in only his birthday suit. Silver inhales nearly all of the food himself, leaving Flint just a few pancakes, two strips of bacon, and all the pieces of honeydew melon (he doesn’t like it). Thusly well-fed, he saunters off to the shower, whistling an old Elvis tune that Flint recognizes as ‘Bossa Nova Baby.’ Excellent choice. It would seem that Silver’s in a good mood, too. He emerges from the bathroom not too long later in charcoal suit pants and a white shirt with loud red roses embroidered on the chest, still unbuttoned and hanging open as Silver finishes getting ready. 

“Tie, or no tie?” Silver asks as Flint gets out of bed to go take his own shower.

He pauses, considering. “Tie,” he says after a beat. “With your bare face, you look pretty young. A tie lends you a little more authority. That’s a good thing, here.”

“You’re the one who talked me into shaving, Mr. ‘You’re Not A Beard Man,’” Silver points out, sounding amused. 

“Did I? That doesn’t sound like me,” Flint says, grinning, and disappears into the suite’s bathroom. When he reappears with a towel around his waist, Silver is struggling with a shiny pink tie, cursing at his own reflection. 

“Goddamn son of a,” he says under his breath, then catches Flint’s eye in the mirror. “Little help?”

Flint comes up behind him and reaches around to help fix his tie, nuzzling behind his ear while his fingers make quick work of the knot. 

“You don’t need my help, you just wanted my hands on you,” he purrs accusingly, licking the shell of his ear. 

“Guilty as charged,” Silver says with a self-satisfied little hum, grinning at their reflections. 

That night, Flint can barely contain himself as they drive back to Eleanor and Max’s house. He’s excited to get things underway, to get down to business. He’s been a professional con man for a long time, and the opportunity to do what he loves while also screwing over Eleanor’s ex-husband is just too sweet a deal to pass up. 

When they arrive at the mansion, Eleanor and Max already have things in full swing - the backyard is set up as if for a high-toned party, and both women are dressed exceedingly elegantly, Max in white and Eleanor in shimmering red sequins. Not for the first time, Flint feels lucky to know them. 

“There he is, the man of the hour,” Eleanor teases Flint when she sees him, giving him a hug and kissing his cheek in greeting. 

“And I’m here too, yay,” Flint hears Silver murmur from just behind him. 

As the evening wears on, people begin to trickle into the yard via the back gate: Idelle first, dressed to kill, of course. Flint notices how Silver stares at her and feels an odd sort of wistfulness. Not long after her, there’s Jack and Anne, their weapons technology experts. After them arrives one Q. Dufresne, squinty and mousy-looking but also the best electronics and surveillance man in the business. Then Joji, the final piece of the puzzle, elegant in a dark suit with his long hair tied back. Last to show are the other two Silver knows but Flint doesn’t: a long-haired pretty boy type called Charles and a huge, hulking mountain of a man whose name Flint doesn’t quite catch. Their enforcers. 

“Good evening, everybody,” Flint starts once they’ve all assembled around the pool. “Welcome, and thanks for joining us tonight. On behalf of myself and my partner John, as well as our generous hosts and benefactors Eleanor and Max, I’d like to invite you to join us in an exciting financial opportunity. It won’t be easy, it won’t even be fun all the time, and it certainly won’t be legal. Whatsoever. If this doesn’t make your heart beat a little faster, by all means, help yourself to some food and a drink or two, drive safe, have a nice night and thanks for coming out. No hard feelings. But.” He pauses, searching their faces. “If by chance you’re the type of person who gets off on stealing from men who deserve to have all their nice things taken away, please, join us inside for a planning session,” he says. 

Rousing speech thusly made, Flint saunters inside, knowing that if no one else is, at least Silver, Eleanor, and Max are following him. When everyone has made their choices, he’s pleasantly surprised to see that every last recruit has elected to join him. Perfect. 

“What an excellent turnout,” Flint says, grinning. He catches Silver’s eye for a moment and they exchange brief, sincere smiles. There’s nothing like the electricity in the room when a heist is about to go down; it’s what Flint lives for. 

He goes over the plan - it’s mostly Silver’s plan, with a little fine-tuning from Flint - in detail, explaining to each person in turn what role they’re to play. He wraps it up by talking money, because that’s what they’re all there for, anyway. 

“So. The night we’re looking at, there’s a big fight going down at Treasure Island. We’re all familiar with the laws of the Nevada Gaming Commission, yes?” he asks. 

“They gotta have enough money on hand to cover everyone’s bets,” Anne says, squinting at Flint. 

“Exactly so,” Silver says, seamlessly taking over for him. “Which means on the night of a prize fight, we’re looking at-”

“-one hundred and fifty million dollars,” Flint finishes, and pauses to let that sink in. “Counting myself and John, we have eleven people here in this room, which means you stand to make about a cool thirteen million.”

“Each,” Silver adds, folding his arms over his chest. 

“Fucking hell,” Charles growls approvingly. 

“Quite right,” Jack says, grinning.

“Okay, wait,” Idelle says, studying the screen on the wall over Flint’s shoulder, where he’s got an elaborate, interactive 3D model of the Treasure Island vault. “Say we get into the cage, and through the security doors, and down the elevator we can’t move, and past the guards with the guns, and into the vault we can’t open-”

“Without being seen by the cameras,” Silver interjects. 

“Yeah, sorry, forgot to mention those,” Flint says. 

“Well, say we do all that,” Idelle says, flicking her long hair over her shoulder. “We’re just supposed to walk out of there with _a hundred and fifty million_ in cash on us, without getting stopped?” she asks, incredulous. 

Flint glances at Silver, who grins. Anne looks at Jack, Charles at his huge friend, Joji at Max, Eleanor at Idelle. “Yeah,” Flint says, shrugging. Nothing more he can say, really.

“Oh,” Idelle says, and sits back on the couch, biting her lower lip. She nods. “Okay.”

“So, there you have it. That’s the plan, and given when the fight is, we haven’t exactly got a lot of time to get underway and make it all happen. We’re going to work hard, and we’re going to work smart. I believe in you all or I wouldn’t have made sure you were invited here tonight. I believe in us, and in this plan. If you do too, I’ll see you in three days at the Bellagio,” he says, and raises his glass of wine in salute. “Cheers. Now, stay, mingle, enjoy,” he says. It’s important to him that his crew get to know each other - this is the first time they’ve all worked together, and the cohesiveness of the team is vital to something like this. 

As everyone starts making awkward small talk, Silver sidles up to Flint and grabs his elbow. Flint lets him drag him away to one of several guest bathrooms. 

“We should be mingling,” Flint protests as Silver shuts and locks the door behind them. “This is our crew, after all.”

“You look so fucking hot when you make eloquent speeches,” Silver says, and then he’s pressing him up against the door, fitting their bodies together and making Flint moan, his lips and teeth on his neck. 

“We don’t have time to make out right now,” Flint protests weakly. “Mmm.”

“That’s a lie, we always have time to make out,” Silver says, leaning on Flint and nipping his way up to his mouth. His own is hot and wet, and Flint would like nothing more than to get that beautiful, talented mouth on other parts of his body. “Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true,” Silver teases, and Flint snorts. 

“Is that what I’m feeling against my leg? Your heart?” Flint purrs. “Down boy. We’ll do this later,” he says when he reluctantly pulls away. “I promise. We gotta make nice with our crew.”

He leaves the bathroom and hears Silver curse behind him, then follow him out. He mingles, greeting the crew members he already knows and introducing himself to the two he hasn’t met before - Charles and his huge friend. 

“So, where did you two meet John?” he asks, sipping a vodka tonic. Charles is nursing a beer and Huge Friend has a soda can clutched in one gigantic paw. 

“Cartagena,” Charles growls, and neither of them elaborates. Flint doesn’t ask. 

He makes a few more circuits of the room, catching up by turns with Dufresne (still a genius, still lives in his nana’s basement), with Jack and Anne (one of the more unusual couples Flint has ever encountered, but you know what they say about strange pairs), and with Idelle (just- yes). Eventually the night draws to a close, their guests drifting out the door, to reconvene at the Bellagio in a few days’ time. Once everyone has left, Flint goes looking for Silver and finds him - where else? - in the kitchen. 

He’s got a popsicle in his left hand and is going to town on it, pink tongue licking, full lips sucking. It’s enough to make a man blush. 

“Hey, kitten,” Flint says, admiring him. 

“Mm. Kitten? I would think ‘pup’ would be more accurate, but go off,” Silver allows, then shoves the rest of the popsicle in his mouth. When he pulls the stick out, it’s completely clean. 

_Damn_ , Flint thinks, impressed. What he says, though, is: “That’s not what that me- never mind. Maybe I should put you on a leash.” Silver’s eyes light up, so Flint takes it a step further, running one index finger over the soft, vulnerable skin of Silver’s throat. “You’d also look nice in a collar. Either one. Or both.”

“Both,” Silver says, leaning in close. 

Flint takes a moment to imagine it - his boy. A leash. A collar. 

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” he suggests, hoping his voice doesn’t completely betray the type of reaction he just had to that mental image. 

If Silver’s grin is anything to go by, though, he knows exactly what Flint’s own imagination has just done to him. 

They say their goodbyes to Max and Eleanor, thank them again for hosting (and bankrolling) their little endeavor, and hustle out to the Caddy as fast as their legs can take them. Flint steals a moment to push Silver up against the side of the car, practically bending him over backwards as he kisses him. 

“You’re so hot when you’re scheming,” he purrs in his ear, feeling how hard Silver is against his thigh. Beautiful. “Tell me, baby, do you like stealing from rich men? Does that get you off?”

“Yes, daddy,” Silver says on a wanton sigh, and tips his head back, giving Flint more room to bite. “Mm. Come on, we need to get out of here before we get arrested for public indecency. Again.”

Obligingly, Flint climbs into the driver’s seat of the Caddy and Silver gets in the other side. Flint speeds off into the night, heading for their hotel, trying not to drive so fast they get pulled over. 

They barely make it back to the safety of their hotel room before Silver has his clever hands all over Flint. He’s unbuckling his pants, shoving the suit jacket off his shoulders, and then - like he can’t possibly wait a second longer - he drops to his knees in front of Flint, takes him out, and gets down to it. His mouth is hot and wicked and everything Flint needs. 

“Fuck,” he groans, leaning back against the door, spreading his thighs a little wider apart so Silver can have more room to take him apart with his mouth. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re so good,” he moans, threading his fingers in Silver’s silky curls. He’s doing crazy, sinful things with his tongue and Flint knows he won’t last long, can’t, with how they’ve been teasing and circling each other all evening. “God help me,” he groans, sliding down the door a little ways, his knees weak. 

Silver braces his incongruously big hands on Flint’s thighs and _squeezes_ , and seeing that, seeing those paws on his skin (the tattooed left one, Jesus) digging in like to leave bruises - he’s done, finished. He comes with a ragged moan, distantly feels his hips rocking as Silver sucks and swallows, lets Flint fuck his face. 

“That sure was nice,” Silver says, hoarse, when he pulls back. He’s licking his lips and getting his left hand in his pants to jerk himself off, and Flint slides the rest of the way to the floor, joins him there. He stretches out on top of Silver, between his thighs, lazily stroking him with one hand. 

“Come on, baby. You always get like this before we pull off something big, huh?” he whispers in his ear, and feels more than hears Silver whine piteously under him. “Turns you on, don’t it? C’mon, then. Come for me. Show me. Show daddy.”

Silver keens, then, and comes between them, slicking Flint’s hand with his release. He’s good, so good, and Flint tells him so against his neck, tasting his skin. 

Eventually, somehow, they end up in bed, and Flint stares at the ceiling, too keyed up to sleep, while Silver snores obliviously on his chest. He always has a hard time sleeping before they get hip-deep into a new heist. Something about the wheels in his mind and how they turn, or maybe the hairs on the back of his neck and how they stand up. He feels like the living embodiment of that Raymond Chandler piece about the Santa Ana winds - anything can happen. 

The next day, and the day after that, are taken up by planning, by making calls, by starting construction on the faux vault. Day three, their crew drifts into the suite at the Bellagio, by ones and twos, where Flint updates them on the progress of the plan and goes over with them again what their roles will be when the day arrives. 

“You nervous?” Silver asks after everyone’s cleared out around 2 or 3 in the morning. He’s fidgeting in a way that makes Flint think he wants a cigarette, so instead Flint rummages in the minibar and tosses a Hershey bar at him. He catches it one-handed, quick as ever, and tears into it with a murmur of thanks. 

“Not nervous, no. Cautious, you could say. There are a lot of moving parts to this thing,” he says, putting a hand on the small of Silver’s back and urging him out onto the balcony for some fresh air. “It’s the biggest, most complicated thing we’ve done yet,” he says, inhaling a deep breath of the cool desert night. “And it’s never been done successfully before.”

“We’ll pull it off, though, we always do,” Silver says, stuffing the rest of the chocolate in his mouth and swallowing. He looks sideways at Flint, gaze keen, knowing. “Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything, baby,” Flint says softly, curling his fingers in the fine dark paisley fabric of Silver’s shirt. 

“Promise me,” Silver says, peering down over the railing of the balcony, “that this isn’t just about getting some kind of stupid, petty revenge on Eleanor’s ex-husband because you don’t like that he hurt her. I came up with this plan, and I won’t see it brought down to that level. If that’s your angle, we need to have a serious conversation.”

“That’s not it,” Flint says immediately, sidling closer to Silver. “It’s a beautiful scheme you dreamed up and I believe in it on its own merits. I believe in you, John.”

“Thank you,” Silver says quietly after a moment, and then he’s leaning his head on Flint’s shoulder and curling into his side, and any doubt or fear or hint of wariness Flint had melts away. “Also, promise me you’ll never go to prison again.”

“I can’t promise you that, kid,” Flint says, chuckling. “But I’ll do my best. The food there sucks even worse than your cooking.”

Silver laughs, low and warm and genuine, and presses that much closer to him. 

The next few weeks are a technicolor blur - getting the crew ready, finishing the vault, bickering with Silver, fucking Silver (he does a lot of that last one, especially). The night of the prize fight rushes up on Flint, crashing over him like a huge, sparkling wave he didn’t quite see coming. It feels a little like when he was in school and acted in a couple plays - the costumes are on, the audience is in place, now all that’s left is to dim the house lights and raise the curtain on their production. He’s ready. He’s dressed impeccably in a tux, not a hair out of place, and he can’t get over the vision that is Silver in a natty lavender suit. On anyone else, it’d be patently ridiculous, but on him? Damn. Hot damn, even. 

“Ready?” he asks as Silver straightens his tie one last time before they leave their suite. 

“Aye aye, Captain,” Silver says, chuckling, and they leave together, walking shoulder to shoulder. Just before they part ways, Flint belatedly recognizes the song Silver is whistling - ‘A Little Less Conversation.’ Perfect. 

Once the players have hit their marks and the curtain goes up, the heist itself happens like this, from Flint’s perspective (with some details he eventually hears about later from the others):

Flint shows up at Treasure Island, casual as you please. He’s not looking to hide - he lets Woodes Rogers see him. In fact, he makes sure he does. Flint and Rogers have had run-ins with each other before - Flint isn’t the type to let a man hurt Eleanor and walk away unscathed. Safe to say they’re not on great terms, which is why it’s no surprise Rogers detains him under the watchful eye of a huge bouncer. 

A huge bouncer named Billy (Flint finally learned his name; it only took weeks). Billy, who works for Flint while appearing to work for Rogers, and who boosts the former up into the vent in the holding cell with his impressive arms. It’s fairly simple, then, to get from vent to vault. 

(The plan is not without its minor snags - Billy is supposed to rough him up to make it believable, but not so early in the game nor quite so hard; “Jesus Christ!” Flint yelps accusingly, holding his jaw. “We rehearsed this!”

Billy has the good sense to look contrite, at least.)

Meanwhile, Silver calls Rogers on a cell phone that Flint planted in his pocket earlier that evening. He tells him - in a calm, sure voice - that unless Rogers gives them half of what’s in the vault, they’ll blow the whole thing all to hell. As Silver’s telling him this, Rogers is seeing surveillance footage that would appear to confirm what Silver is saying: the crew in place, everything rigged to explode. Rogers complies, of course - who wouldn’t?

Rogers’s goons bring loaded duffel bags out to a waiting van, which they don’t realize is being driven remotely by one Q. Dufresne. That’s when Rogers tries something that he must think very clever: his men follow the van, while he calls in a SWAT team for the vault. But Flint planned for something like this, because of course he did he’s a professional, and there’s a firefight with the SWAT team on one side and Charles and Anne on the other. They do Flint proud - the explosives the team rigged go off, incinerating the other half of the cash in the vault. Boom, baby. In the aftermath, the SWAT team secures the premises, packs up their gear, and departs. 

Meanwhile, Rogers’s goons in their goonmobile stop, surround Dufresne’s robovan in a remote airport parking lot, and realize belatedly when Jack’s small bomb goes off inside it that the bags didn’t have any cash in them at all. Just lots and lots and lots of flyers promoting Idelle, the Most Delicious Domme on the Strip™.

As Rogers watches the security footage he realizes something a little too late - the vault doesn’t have the trademark skull-and-crossbones logo etched in the floor. He only had it installed a few days ago, meaning the “security footage” was filmed elsewhere (that faux vault built by Flint and his crew), meaning, of course, that it’s been a ruse all along. Dufresne hacked the system remotely when a security guard’s back was turned - dealing with a minor crisis that Flint’s crew caused - and the feed has been their recorded video since. Everything he’s been seeing has been faked, recorded by Flint’s brilliant actors - he’s been had. 

Behind the scenes it isn’t flawless - they hadn’t quite anticipated that the electromagnetic ‘pinch’ Jack deployed as the disruption part of the plan would momentarily knock out their communications, and there are admittedly a few tense moments before everything gets straightened out again. Joji almost becomes a casualty, and has some strong words for them all in the aftermath (his English isn’t great but Flint catches ‘fuck’ and ‘you’ loud and clear) - it’s a bit chaotic. It’s a little messy. But it works. 

And what about that SWAT team Rogers called for? That’s Silver, Max, and Eleanor in full riot gear disguises, stealing from the actual vault right under Rogers’s nose - there was cash in their gear bags. Of course. The call that was placed to 911 never actually made it; it was rerouted instead to Dufresne, who answered pretending to be the operator. 

The finale is where things get a little dicey. Rogers comes looking for Flint, naturally. He almost makes it back to the holding cell before Flint can shimmy gracefully down out of the vent again. Fortunately Idelle, with her considerable endowments and her tiny purse dog and her ludicrous new German accent, plants herself in Rogers’s path on the casino floor and buys Flint an extra few minutes. Dufresne’s frantic heads up over their secure communications channel ensures she’s in the right place at just the right time. 

The important part is that by the time Rogers extricates himself from Idelle and returns to the holding cell, Flint is sitting on the bench inside, still being guarded by Rogers’s dutiful employee Anthony (that is, Billy). Flint has clearly been there the whole time, being roughed up and interrogated by ‘Anthony’ in the camera-free holding cell, so whatever else has happened in the meantime he’s entirely ignorant of. Wink. 

Rogers doesn’t buy it for a minute, of course. He’s not that stupid. He can’t definitively prove that Flint had anything to do with the faux vault video stunt, but he can and does have his men escort Flint away from Treasure Island, then calls the police to let them know that Flint is violating his parole by being in Las Vegas. Flint anticipated as much, and goes quietly. A small part of him wishes he could see Silver again, one last time before he goes, but the fake SWAT team is long gone by the time Flint finds himself in the back of a police cruiser. It’s a good thing. He closes his eyes, leans his head back against the seat, and holds on to the mental image of Silver in that ridiculous lavender suit. 

This time he only spends a couple months in the joint - less than a year. They’ve got him on parole violation but nothing else; regardless of Rogers’s insane ranting to the authorities about traitorous bouncers and a samurai in a suitcase and strippers with fake accents, there’s no proof Flint had anything at all to do with the mysterious case of the missing $150 million. 

Wink. 

One bright August morning finds Flint a free man again. He strolls out to the parking lot - in a tuxedo, still, because somehow he always seems to get arrested wearing those - and grins at Silver, who’s casually leaning on a sky blue late 60s Impala, devouring a chili dog. No beard this time, thank the good lord. 

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Flint deadpans. 

Silver smirks, licks his fingers, pushes his sunglasses up on top of his head. He’s gross and radiant by turns. He’s a vision in pale blue seersucker. There’s a new tattoo peeking at Flint from the unbuttoned collar of his off-white shirt. 

“Thought I told you not to get sent to prison again,” he says, just a little accusingly. 

“I tried, kid. I’m sorry. I’m assuming you heard he got me on-”

“-a technicality, yeah. Parole violation for being outside the great state of California,” Silver says, rolling his eyes. 

Flint takes a few steps closer to Silver and rests one hand on his hip. He wants to examine that new tattoo more closely. Alone. Naked. 

“What a weasel he is,” Silver murmurs. He glances around discretely, then leans in close, his lips on Flint’s ear. “Some of his men followed me here. Make out with me so they feel uncomfortable and look away,” he says. 

Flint obliges, of course. Kissing Silver in the bright sun with the warm breeze on his skin feels like coming home. Like Christmas. 

Once they’re sure Rogers’s men aren’t looking anymore, they slip into the Impala and Silver eases out of the prison parking lot, pulling his sunglasses down over his eyes as he starts on the highway. 

“So, where to now?” Flint asks, resting a hand on Silver’s thigh, giving it a squeeze. He’s missed him like the deserts miss the rain, corny as that is. 

“Colombia?” Silver suggests airily. “I hear Cartagena is lovely this time of year. There’s this beach called Playa Blanca, I think you’d enjoy it. You might even be able to get a tan,” he says, deftly driving with one hand while his other hand busies itself with the glove compartment, and then the bag of Skittles therein. How does he always have candy stashed in the glove compartment?

“A little vacation, huh? That does appeal,” Flint muses, glancing out the window, watching the shrubbery speed by. 

“Call it a honeymoon,” Silver says quietly, then tips some Skittles into his mouth and holds the half-full bag out to Flint, offering. He takes them and pours a few out into his palm, savoring the tooth-aching sweetness. 

“We’ll have to lay low for awhile first, of course. Lose the goons,” he says, glancing pointedly in the rearview mirror. There’s a deliberately nondescript white Corolla following them; it’s been there since right after they left the prison. 

“Can do. In fact, have already done,” Silver says, but doesn’t elaborate - just guns the Impala’s engine and peels off down the highway, burning rubber. 

When they finally stop for the night, it’s at one of those tacky-in-a-good-way theme motels where Silver’s made them a reservation. As it turns out he’s booked them in the honeymoon suite, which comes fully equipped with loud print carpet, soft pink lighting (very flattering), a heart-shaped bed, and - of course - a jacuzzi tub in the bedroom. 

“This is…” Flint starts to say when they unlock the door and step in, but finds himself utterly at a loss for words. 

“A lot, I know. Isn’t it great?” Silver asks, grinning. 

“Mm,” Flint agrees, chuckling. 

Silver sits on the edge of the chintzy bed to take off his shoes and Flint watches him, leaning back on the door of the honeymoon suite and drinking him in. It doesn’t matter how many times he gets put away or for how long each time - the best part of being a free man is, and always will be, seeing Silver. 

“You got new ink while I was locked up,” Flint observes. 

“I did,” Silver allows, smirking up at him. 

“Show me,” Flint says softly but firmly, folding his arms over his chest. 

“Yessir,” Silver says, which sends a happy shiver up Flint’s spine. He shrugs off his suit jacket and unbuttons his shirt the rest of the way as Flint strolls over to him. 

There, inked in black on his tan skin right over his heart, are Flint’s initials. They’re in his handwriting, wreathed by simple, elegant leaves. The tattoo takes Flint’s breath away. 

“It’s beautiful,” he says, touching it lightly with his index and middle finger. Tracing it. It’s fully healed - did Silver get it done right after their heist? “But it, uh. Looks a little...morbid? Like an ‘in memoriam’ deal. I’m not dead yet, baby.”

“As of tomorrow, legally you will be,” Silver says, grinning. Flint must look perplexed, because Silver laughs and explains: “We both will be. John Silver and James Flint died in a fiery car wreck not twelve hours after the latter was released from the penitentiary. Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Silver jokes. 

“Clever boy,” Flint purrs, leaning down to give Silver a lingering kiss. 

“Dead men tell no tales, daddy,” Silver whispers against his lips when he pulls fractionally away. 

“So who are we now?” Flint asks, unbuckling Silver’s belt, pushing him down on his back. He sits astride him, sliding one hand into his pants, relishing in how it makes him hiss with pleasure. 

“John Solomon and James McGraw,” Silver pants, squirming. “Ahh.”

“You are so goddamn smart, you know that?” Flint rumbles. He shifts to get the rest of both their clothes off, in a hurry now that they’re alone and they have all the time in the world. He pauses, though, when he sees a big, shiny new scar on Silver’s left leg. It looks fairly neat, almost surgical. “What happened here?” Flint asks, rubbing one thumb over it. 

“Just a little accident during a job. I broke my leg, but it’s fine now,” Silver says in a tone of voice that’s way too blasé for Flint’s liking. 

“You broke your leg bad enough that you needed someone to put you back together, and all you have to say is ‘it’s fine now’?” Flint asks, frowning down at him. “Kid.”

“Hey,” Silver says, sitting up, resting a hand on Flint’s cheek. “I’m right here. I’m good. I’m in one piece and you’re here with me.”

Flint exhales, leaning in and resting his forehead on Silver’s. “Sorry. I just worry about you,” Flint says, at the same time Silver says ‘you worry about me.’ Flint smiles. “Yeah.”

They get lost in each other then, reacquainting on the heart-shaped bed with its satin sheets in the outré honeymoon suite. In minutes Flint is buried deep inside Silver, stretched out on top of him, and then he shifts to get better leverage and hitch Silver’s leg up around his waist. He holds Silver’s thigh in one hand and smacks the other hand into the wall above Silver’s head for balance. 

He must hit some kind of control panel because the lights dim and shift to a deep indigo, and out of nowhere Prince’s syrupy, slow-burn classic ‘Purple Rain’ starts playing at full volume throughout the entirety of the suite. 

“Oh my god,” Silver says breathlessly, laughing even as he and Flint keep moving together. 

“That’s what you get for booking the honeymoon suite,” Flint teases, and moans, then laughs with Silver because he can’t not. _I only wanna see you laughing in the purple rain_. 

Their voices blend with Prince’s as they get louder and closer, and when they come - not at exactly the same instant but within moments of each other, it’s intense - it’s like a beautiful symphony. Flint never knew the man, but a part of him has to imagine Prince would be proud they’ve honored his memory this way. 

Predictably, Silver complains of being hungry just as soon as they’ve finished, panting against Flint’s neck that he hasn’t eaten enough for this level of physical activity. The motel doesn’t do room service, but Flint orders a pizza and Silver produces a bottle of wine he’d been hiding in a duffel bag. They eat pizza in the jacuzzi tub in the bedroom, and sip their wine from the pink plastic cups from the bathroom. Silver does his best Prince impression and Flint laughs so hard he has tears running down his face. 

When they finally retire to the heart-shaped bed a bit past midnight, Flint takes both Silver’s hands in his own and kisses him and says _I love you, kid_ , to which Silver responds smartly _I know_ and then _I love you, too_. 

The honeymoon is off to an excellent start. 

—-

_Epilogue, approximately three months later  
Undisclosed location, Cartagena, Colombia_

It’s raining outside. A warm, tropical rain that drips from the eaves and splashes noisily on the wood of the deck out back. 

Aside from the cacophony of the rain, the nondescript little white house is quiet but for a sultry Buena Vista Social Club song emanating from the upstairs bedroom. 

Flint is lying on his back, catching his breath, Silver stretched out next to him. They’re both naked, the white sheets thrown off the bed in a pile on the wooden floor. 

“And a good morning to you, too,” Flint rumbles, slinging one arm around Silver and pulling him in close for a lazy kiss. 

The music stops abruptly - Flint’s phone is ringing. Odd, since the only one who has his new number is Silver and he’s currently right there in bed making a nuisance of himself, petting Flint’s chest and stomach, nosing in the hollow of his throat. Flint reaches over him and grabs the phone off the nightstand, squinting at its screen. 

Vaguely familiar number, 702 area code. Someone from Nevada is trying to reach him. 

Cautiously, he answers. “Hello?”

“Hi there,” the voice on the other end says, and he recognizes Eleanor immediately. “You busy?”

“A little. Let me put you on speaker so John can hear you too,” he says, and Silver mutters something not nice and sits up while Flint hits the speaker button and sets the phone on the bed. 

“Hi, Eleanor. We just fucked and were about to get started again, so make it quick, please,” Silver says hoarsely, pushing his hair back from his face. His curls have gone absolutely wild in the tropical weather and Flint loves it.

He smacks his arm and chastises him for how he’s just spoken to Eleanor. “Manners, boy.”

“I can call back,” Eleanor says flatly, and Flint can hear the disdain for Silver in her voice. It makes him laugh. 

“No no, please go on,” Flint says, sitting up. 

“You haven’t retired for good, have you?” Eleanor asks. “Because I could use your help.” There’s a pause. “Both of you,” she adds reluctantly. 

“Not retired, just honeymooners,” Silver says, biting Flint’s shoulder. 

“Gross. Can you be in Vegas in a week?” she asks. 

They look at each other. 

“For you, Queen of Thieves?” Silver says to her. 

“We’ll be there in two days,” Flint says, and just like that, they’re off and running again.


End file.
